Friday, August 16, 2013

Dark games (one of the spanking stories)

The next part of my training began a few nights later. Charles had found the vibrator deep in my closet when he was looking for my secret lingerie stash; his initial intention had been to surprise me with something from my own collection as my uniform. The magic wand's capacity to drive a girl practically to the edge of insanity was something he instantly wanted to explore, and so, at the end of our usual sort of take-out dinner, he said, "Miss Tilton, please don your training-uniform, and go to your training-room, and wait for me."

After looking at the state of the feet of my stockings following our first training-session, he had decided that stockings didn't have to have feet, and had ordered some footless stockings. It was an odd feeling, but I had no objection; the alternative was shoes of some kind, and although I like nice shoes, they don't have any role in my erotic life, and I'd much rather play BDSM scenes in bare feet than just about any other way. So I put on what amounted to sheer nylon leg-warmers, and the gorgeous garter-belt, and I went to the dungeon to await my trainer.

He entered in his own uniform--black dressing-gown over nothing. We were a pair: in the dark basement, in dark clothes, playing dark games.

"Raise your hands above your head," he said, softly, and I complied, feeling again the thrill of stretched exposure, of rendering myself completely helpless in my trainer's power. In the mirrors I saw the auburn-haired young woman, shamefully dressed, shamefully exposed: white and pink skin flushed with arousal, small pink nipples standing wantonly at attention on her little breasts, cunny-slit visible to anyone who should happen by, lovely young bottom, seen in the back mirror, inviting stern discipline, both framed in the black lace of garter-belt and stockings like prized possessions whose use my trainer reserved to himself.

He put my cuffs on my wrist, and clipped them to the chain, just high enough that my arms were nearly at full length, and I could hang easily, if I wanted. I realized suddenly that I wanted him to take me further; I wanted to be on tip-toe, straining, like in the books.

He drew the low stool up so that it was directly in front of me, only two feet or so away, and sat on it, so that his face was mere inches from my shaved pussy.

"I see you are blushing at what must seem to you the shameful liberty I am taking, to use my power over you to enjoy the sight of your pretty little cunt at my leisure."

Still, after all this time, when Charles uses the c-word, it makes me blush, and it enflames me. Never mind that I've tried to claim its power for myself--when the man who owns you calls your tender cleft that. . . the power is his (as you have willed it to be his).

"Your blush does you credit, and bodes well for the state of your modesty, and for your potential for training in the ways of the pleasing wife.

"I am afraid, though, that my duty to your husband to make you pleasing for him demands that I violate that modesty, for your own good, and, of course, for his."

I had my eyes closed, too terribly aroused by the sight of Charles, as my trainer, examining me so minutely down there, where the heat came unbidden, and the moisture began to flow. Now I opened them, as I felt his hands start to urge my knees apart. Oh, no: this was bad, from a modesty standpoint.

"Ah," I said. "Ah, I. . . hadn't thought of that." He spread my legs slowly, making my feet inch out until they were slightly more than shoulder-width apart. I felt. . . I felt the air moving against parts that the air shouldn't move against, parts that I had shaved, for him, which made them even more sensitive to the moving air.

"That sort of language will not be tolerated in training," he said after three strokes to each bottom-cheek, strokes that turned them a fiery red and made them burn so fiercely that I strained at my cuffs with the need to rub the sting away, and whimpered with the pain and the heat that now spread itself forward. . .

Taboo Tuesday

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About Me

Emily Tilton, whose books have hit number one on Amazon in four different erotica categories, wishes she could live out her fantasies of submission the way her characters do.

Emily's erotica is a narrative version of her nearly lifelong quest to reconcile her submissive erotic orientation with her ethics. She writes erotica, not erotic romance: her books are about sex, because writing about sex helps her understand that fundamental part of her life better. She hopes maybe it does the same for her readers.

Over the many years since Emily became aware of her sometimes unbearable craving for ravishment, spanking, and above all anal domination, she has tried to come to terms with that craving in more ways than she can count. The first of the ways was by reading, voraciously, every piece of BDSM erotica she could find.

Eventually, she read Story of O. As is reflected throughout her work, it changed her life, though the change has been gradual, and continues to this day. The idea that other women might share the lusts she has by turns been ashamed of and defiantly proud of, that a woman like the real Pauline Réage might write so beautifully of those lusts, and work them out so thoroughly and even pitilessly on a character, put Réage's famous pencil in her right hand. Or, to put it in the terms of EXPLORATIONS, which she considers her magnum opus, it put her left hand on the keyboard of her laptop and her right hand in her lap, if you know what she means. Emily started to write spanking stories.